


Resolve

by rainbowshoes



Series: Tony Stark Bingo 2019 [8]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Drunk Tony Stark, Guilt, M/M, Multi, Past murder discussions, References to Depression, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Survival, Temporary Character Death, The Soldier as a separate personality, Therapy, blame, reconsiliation, some of these things might not have handled as delicately as they should have, tony is not a good bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 11:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18052058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowshoes/pseuds/rainbowshoes
Summary: God, Tony could go for a drink.He just wanted to resolve all this shit and go home. But it wasn't that simple. It never was.For the Tony Stark Bingo 2019S4: Resolve





	Resolve

 

Everything was fixed. Everything was fine now. That's what Tony kept telling himself. Didn't matter that his nanobots were still half destroyed, crawling back into the arc reactor casing just so he didn't look quite as bad as he actually was. Half his armor had been blasted to bits, and he was still a squishy human inside it. Not for long, but hey - no one else needed to know all that. 

They'd gathered in Wakanda again, once everyone was back on Earth and out of the damn soul stone. It was still neutral enough territory. Tony didn't mind, as such, but he didn't want to be there, either. Pepper was back in New York already, with Carol and Hill and Fury, getting things cleaned and sorted from their end. It probably wasn't going well, but Tony hadn't had any communications in a damn long time, so he didn't know for sure. 

But Wakanda.

It was pretty, he supposed. He wasn't there to take in the scenery, though. And as much as he'd love to talk to Shuri one-on-one and get a peek at her work space and her tech, all that would have to come later. He could do later. It was fine. 

Vision and Rhodey stood near him. They were across the small circle from Steve and Barnes, Wanda and Clint. Natasha was somewhere in the nebulous middle, as always, never one to truly pick sides in anything except the one time it had fucking mattered. Strange and Wong were neutral, too, though Peter was still on Tony's side. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. 

Thor and the Guardians were off in a separate circle, conversing amongst themselves. It was fine. They didn't need to be a part of this. Bruce was half way between each of the groups, with Loki nearby - of all people - and as much as Tony didn't really like having Loki at his back, he trusted Bruce to handle him. Everyone did, it seemed. And Brunhilde was beside Bruce, a drink in her hand.

God, Tony could go for a drink. 

He just wanted to resolve all this shit and go home. But it wasn't that simple. It never was.

King Kitty was off with his Dora Milaje for the moment, but Tony was fairly certain they were waiting for him before beginning - whatever it was they were all standing around waiting for. He wasn't too sure. He was too damn tired to ask or care. 

Barnes wasn't having a good time of things, from the looks of it. Tony sort of felt bad for the guy. He'd gotten over the whole Barnes-killed-his-parents thing. Really, he had.  _ Barnes _ hadn't done it. Neither had the Soldier, technically. The Soldier was little more than a weapon pointed in a direction and fired. HYDRA had killed Tony's parents. He knew that, he accepted that, and he'd moved on. That was one of the reasons he'd sent T'Challa the designs for the arm - which, solid Vibranium, nice choice - and a heavily augmented version of BARF to help with the code words. He assumed it had worked. He didn't know - hadn't asked.

His problem was with Steve. With Clint. With Wanda. With Natasha. 

Their betrayal was a knife in his back, and he couldn't stomach it. 

But he still stood there. He remained. He waited. He didn't know why, not really. He only knew he was too damn tired to function and think, and he really just wanted Rhodey to tell him it was okay for them to head home now. 

Rhodey hadn't said it was, so Tony stayed.

Steve tried touching Barnes’ shoulder, tried that friendly clap-and-squeeze thing he'd done to Tony so many damn times before, even if they'd never been all that friendly. Barnes flinched badly, but he wasn't scared. Tony could see it in his eyes. 

He was overwhelmed, sure. They all were, still. Tony had a hard time keeping his hands off Peter - after the kid had literally died in his arms, he hadn't wanted to let go for anything in the world. But Barnes didn't want to be touched, and Steve really should have known better than to try again immediately. 

Barnes took a step into their loose circle. Tony's eyes widened a bit. Barnes turned on his toes, dark metal and gold flashing in the afternoon sun. Tony sucked in a breath, seeing what was about to unfold before it happened. 

Barnes punched Steve. Hard. In the jaw. 

Tony’s breath left him in a rush. He was tense all over, and he was certain everyone else in their group was as well. Barnes was deadly still, hovering over Steve where Steve was sprawled on the ground, on hand clutching his - likely shattered - jaw.

“I said not to touch me.” The words are cold, sharply articulated. Barnes turns slowly, his eyes going over the rest of the group slowly. He stops when he gets to Tony. Walks forward. Tony never did know when to back down, so he holds his ground, even when Barnes takes a handgun from the holster on his thigh. He'd been fully kitted out when he dusted, and he'd returned in the same state. 

“I'm sorry,” Barnes says, his voice low and soft. Tony's breath is sucked straight out of his lungs by the look of anguish in his eyes. “You deserve more than this, but it's all I can give you.” 

He brings the gun up. For a split second, Tony thinks Barnes is going to kill him. And, exhausted as he is, he's almost ready to embrace it. He's almost ready to spread his arms, plaster on one of his best cocky smirks, and tell Barnes to  _ bring it _ . 

He's so tired. 

But Barnes doesn't aim the gun at him. He doesn't aim it at anyone in the circle around him. He turns the barrel of the pistol on himself, holding it right at his temple. 

Tony jerks forward without thinking. He'd disarmed Barnes before, almost effortlessly. He knows he can do it again. It's not a matter of knowledge or fear or courage or any of that. 

It's a matter of speed and timing. 

And Tony - 

Tony isn't fast enough. 

The gunshot is loud. Louder than he expected it would be. Even with all his prior experience with guns and shooting, Tony feels deafened by the shot. He flinches badly as Barnes’ brain matter and bits of skull splatter across his face and neck. 

Someone screams as Barnes’ body crumples to the ground. Tony sinks to the ground right along with him. His knees have given out, now, at last. They can't hold his weight any longer.

He can't look away. Can't even blink. Someone shoves him, grabs him and drags him away. Tony doesn't have any idea what's happening around him. His eyes are locked onto Barnes’ half-open ones, empty and lifeless and so startlingly gray. 

It's probably weird that Tony thinks they're beautiful. 

And then Steve is dragging Barnes’ body into his arms, disrupting Tony's view, sobbing and screaming over Barnes’ body, rocking back and forth. His jaw is still broken. Tony still can't hear. 

Rhodey's face appears in front of Tony's. He says something, but Tony just shakes his head, gestures uselessly at his ear. His hands sign something - he isn't even sure what he's trying to say. Rhodey doesn't know ASL, though. He'd learned for Clint. So long ago, now. 

Someone drags Clint over to him. Clint asks him what he did. 

_ Tried to take the gun apart _ , Tony signs. He thinks. Clint furrows his eyebrows. Tony signs again, and Clint nods, says something to someone.  _ Wasn't fast enough _ . Tony looks down at his hands. One is smeared red with blood. The other is clean and dry. He thinks that's probably fitting in some metaphorical way that he doesn't quite get. That wasn't ever really his thing. But they're also shaking, trembling, and he thinks that's probably what confused Clint. He clenches his hands into fists to try to stop the shaking. The blood is warm and wet and squelches between his fingers. 

_ Wasn't your fault _ , Clint signs slowly, patiently. He looks worlds away from all of this. But he also doesn't look angry and poisonous right now. Tony supposes he should be grateful for that. 

Someone, probably Rhodey, hauls Tony to his feet. Bruce is there to help get another arm under Tony to keep him upright when it becomes clear he can't stand on his own. 

Steve is still sobbing, still clutching Barnes’ body to his chest like if he just holds tightly enough, he'll get his best friend back. Tony knows that isn't true, but he doesn't voice his opinion. There's no point. Steve's drive to find Barnes had nearly split the world in half. Tony figures he'd burn the damn thing to the ground if it meant getting Barnes back. 

They take Tony away, and Tony wonders, not for the first time, why everything he touches turns to ashes and blood.

* * *

 

He's back in New York, ‘recovering,’ when he gets a call from the Aristocat himself. Tony hasn't given himself Extremis yet - not  _ yet _ \- but he's going to, planning for the day. He hadn't expected a monkey wrench like this one to be thrown into his plans. 

Barnes isn't dead. 

Tony sits on the couch in his workshop, heavily. He doesn't sigh, doesn't make any smart remark, doesn't say or do anything else. Just sits. Waits. 

“He is refusing to see Captain Rogers,” T'Challa says after Tony has been silent for a while. “We do not have the… sort of facility he needs.”

“Get him to New York,” Tony says before he can really think things through. “Give me a week.” He ends the call before he can think about it, and he immediately dials Pepper.

“Tony -” she sounds frustrated. She's probably busy and he's probably interrupting her. 

“Barnes is alive,” he says, first thing. She doesn't say a word. “T'Challa is sending him to New York. Get the best people you can find.”

“I can't,” she says simply. “You'll need to handle it yourself.”

“Fine.” He ends the call with her. They haven't been on great terms lately. He left her - again - after all. He went off to space to fight a fucking alien monster and nearly died. She doesn't want to deal with that, doesn't want to attempt any sort of family when he can't even promise her stability. He doesn't blame her.

“FRIDAY, do a search across the globe. Find the best psychologists out there for Barnes. Specialties in PTSD and brainwashing, depression, suicidal behavior, and whatever else is on the list. Ask T'Challa. If he can't or won't give it to you, work around it. Offer them whatever they want to come to New York, here at the compound. They'll work only with Barnes. No time limit on the contract. He'll probably need to be in isolation and under constant observation when he first gets here. Don't want him trying to make the whole suicide thing permanent, after all. Figure out how to get that set up and get the contractors here first thing. And by first thing, I mean by tomorrow.”

“Yes, boss,” FRIDAY says, subdued and without her usual sass. 

Tony looks out at his workshop. “Get Cho here, too. It's time.”

* * *

 

Barnes arrives on one of T'Challa's fancy jets and is installed in his new suite - almost just like a regular suite, but with no sharp objects - but Tony doesn't see him. Tony doesn't even speak to T'Challa. He's too busy going through the series of Extremis injections he and Helen synthesized.

* * *

 

Three months pass before Tony sees Barnes for the first time since he tried to kill himself - well, since he  _ did  _ kill himself and it just didn't stick. Tony didn't want to see him then, either. He figured this was just a stopping point for Barnes, a place where he could get his head on straight before venturing back out into the world, maybe running off with Steve. But here he is, sitting in Barnes’ suite on his sofa, coffee mug in hand, watching Barnes where he's sitting half curled into himself in the big reading chair. The psychiatrist, Dr. Steinberg, is sitting on the loveseat across from Barnes, perpendicular to Tony. 

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Stark,” Dr. Steinberg says. She's nice, Tony thinks. He's had a few conversations with her. Never about Barnes, but about his own issues. She'd been interested in trying to see other patients while at the compound. Barnes took up a lot of her time, but she felt she could still help. And, well, Tony had needed someone new, anyway. 

“Sure,” Tony says, faux causal. He'd acknowledged Barnes when he came into the room with nothing more than a nod. Barnes had given him a nod in return, and that had been all. He doubts it will be that easy moving forward. 

“Mr. Barnes is at a point in his treatment where I thought it best that he discuss the events from the day of his attempted suicide with you, seeing as you played a crucial role.”

“Woah,” Tony said, holding up a hand. “Crucial?” He glances at Barnes, notices how he's withdrawn even further, then focuses on Dr. Steinberg once more. “Crucial how?” He feels like he's missing some key puzzle pieces to see the whole picture, here.

She gestures to Barnes and sits back a little. “Mr. Barnes?”

Barnes shifts uncomfortably, darts an uncertain glance at Tony, then refocuses his attention on the floor. “I killed your parents. Felt I owed you somethin’ for that.”

“You don't owe me shit,” Tony says, a little more… invested than he'd intended. Barnes flinches. He draws in a deep breath and continues, softer this time. “I forgave you, Barnes. Did it take a while? Yeah, I won't lie about that. But you weren't responsible for your actions. That's like trying to blame an IED for exploding and killing someone. You don't blame the bomb, you blame the person who set it. I blame  _ HYDRA _ , not you.”

Barnes gives him an uncertain look for a moment, then goes back to staring at the floor. “Still my hands that did it.”

“Okay, ice pop. Story time. Back when the whole ULTRON thing was going down, Wanda was a bad guy. She worked for HYDRA willingly. She let them do all sorts of experiments on her and that's how she got her nifty little magic powers. Now. Wanda's parents were dead. That's why she joined HYDRA. One of my bombs blew up her apartment building. It killed her parents, and she and her brother were stuck in the rubble for days, staring at another bomb, a dud, with my name plastered on the side of it. Point of clarification, here. I didn't sell that bomb to those terrorists, and I sure as fuck didn't fire it myself. Were her parents’ deaths my fault?”

Barnes’ expression is carefully blank. “No,” he says simply. 

“Bingo.” Tony takes a sip of his coffee. “No, that wasn't my fault. Hell, to be honest with you, I'm not even sure I made the damn thing because I was the best, and I didn't make duds. But that doesn't matter. Wanda blamed me. In her mind, it was  _ my fault  _ her parents were dead, and I should have to suffer for it. Do you think she was right?”

“No,” Barnes answers again, a frown on his face. 

“Well then,” Tony says, spreading his hands, one still clutching his mug. “It looks like you have your answer. I don't blame you because you had no more agency than that bomb. You didn't decide to bash Howard's face in or strangle my mother.” Barnes flinches, but Tony powers on. “For fuck's sake, my bots have more agency than you did during all that time. Why the fuck do you think I'm drinking motor oil flavored coffee right now?” He waves his cup a little. “Because I let Butterfingers make my coffee, and she can't be trusted not to put motor oil in damn near everything.”

“Dr. Stark,” Dr. Steinberg says, a small frown on her face. “Should you really be drinking that?”

Tony shrugs. “Eh, it's fine. Hasn't killed me yet, and I have it on good authority that it's a lot harder to do that these days.” He flashes her a smirk and takes another, deliberately loud, slurp of his coffee. 

“It's not the same,” Barnes whispers.

“No?” Tony asks. “Why's that?”

“Because…” Barnes chews on his bottom lip, looking everywhere but at Tony. 

“Because it  _ is _ and you just don't want to admit it,” Tony says, a little more gently this time. “That's fine. I get that, really. But seriously, Barnes, if you have this… I don't know, this need to pay for what you've done, trying to splatter your brains all over me really isn't the answer.” Barnes grimaces, and so does Dr. Steinberg. “Sorry, that was graphic. But I meant it. You have the ability to choose to do things for yourself now, you know? So choose to do something with your life that isn't being HYDRA's wind-up assassin toy, whatever that is. You wanna kill people? Whatever. But do it because you  _ choose  _ to, not because someone else says you have to.”

“Dr. Stark, I really can't encourage that sort of behavior,” Dr. Steinberg chastises lightly.

“That's fair,” Tony says with a shrug and a nod. He studies Barnes for a moment. “So, what is it you want to do, anyway? Sky's the limit.”

Barnes seems frozen to the spot, unable to respond. He just shakes his head after a moment, fiddling with his metal fingers uncertainly.

“Well, if you figure it out, let me know. Or tell FRIDAY. We can set it up, whatever it is.” He glances at Dr. Steinberg. “Unless it's something illegal.” He sends Barnes an exaggerated wink anyway, which Barnes seems baffled by.

“Is there anything you'd like to add, Mr. Barnes?” Dr. Steinberg asks softly, politely. 

Barnes is quiet for a moment as he considers the question. He finally looks up at Tony. “Why'd you do all this for me, anyway?”

“Seemed like you needed a better option, what with your plan A not working out so well,” Tony says. He shrugs. “I've almost died like, twelve times by now. At  _ least _ . Most of it was my own damn stupidity. But I lived, each time, and I managed to make things happen because of that. You could, too. Just gotta get out of your own head, first, which isn't easy.” He gestures to Dr. Steinberg. “That's what she's here for. Better to try and fail a thousand times for the one time you succeed than to just stop trying all together.” 

Dr. Steinberg smiles a little. “I think that's a good place to stop for now. Thank you, Dr. Stark.”

“Sure,” Tony says. He stands and takes his mug with him as he heads for the door. He stops when he gets there and turns to look at Barnes for a moment. “You aren't a prisoner here, you know. Feel free to roam around, explore a bit. FRIDAY will keep an eye out, and if you need anything, you can always ask her, but I thought I'd let you know.” Barnes doesn't say anything, but he looks a little surprised. Tony leaves and doesn't look back. 

Hopefully he didn't fuck everything up in there. He'd hate to undo all Dr. Steinberg's hard work.

* * *

 

It's been a week since Tony spoke with Barnes under the careful supervision of his therapist. He hoped he'd never really have to interact with Barnes again, if he's honest. Dr. Steinberg could decide when Barnes had had enough therapy to be allowed to live on his own again, without constant supervision, and Tony had no part in that decision. He didn't  _ want _ a part in that decision. 

But then he turns and finds Barnes standing at the door to his workshop like some creepy, C-level stalker or horror movie antagonist. Before Tony had even registered what happened, the Bleeding Edge armor had been crawling over his skin to assemble itself, but he sends it straight back to its housing when he realizes it's Barnes and that he isn't actually trying to step foot inside the ‘shop. 

“Need something, Mr. Roboto?” Tony asks, pretending like he isn't staving off a panic attack with some very deep, very  _ forced  _ and even breaths. 

“Exploring,” Barnes answers. He's in a hoodie that looks two sizes too big and a pair of sweats. He has no shoes. Tony wonders if anyone thought to get him anything better to wear, then figured, no, they probably didn't, and he tags that as something else he needs to do. 

It's only after a long pause, wherein Tony was anticipating some sort of elaboration or something else, that he realizes that Barnes has shrunk in on himself and moved a whole two paces away from the door. By the time Tony picks up on the problem, Barnes is already muttering about going back to his room and staying put. 

“You -” Tony rakes a hand through his hair. “ _ Fuck _ , Barnes, you aren't in any kind of, I don't know, trouble or something. I told you to leave the damn room. I just didn't expect you to show up down here, okay?” He knows he sounds frustrated, but he doesn't apologize for that. “Go outside and get some sun or something.” Tony turns away from Barnes and deliberately leaves the man his back. He hates it, but he knows FRIDAY will cover for him, and he's pretty sure he'd notice, now, if Barnes tried to get closer. 

Tony gets back to work once FRIDAY gives a quiet confirmation that Barnes is gone. Good, Tony thinks.

* * *

 

It's been a total of six months, roughly, since Barnes has been at the compound. Tony rarely sees him, and Barnes hasn't yet tried to come down to the workshop again. Mostly they pass each other in the halls or glace each other in the big, shared kitchen on the common floor that once held everyone and now only has Tony - and sometimes Rhodey and Vision and now Barnes. 

Today, though. Today is not a good day. And Tony has been sober for  _ years _ , he swears. He hasn't had so much as a single beer with company, a glass of wine with dinner, or a cocktail at a mixer.

This afternoon, he has one hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of Russian vodka that doesn't have a fucking label at all, but he thinks it's Russian anyway because he stole it straight from Natasha's room, and if it isn't Russian, it's probably hooch. But that doesn't matter, because he wasn't sure he could even  _ get  _ drunk anymore, with Extremis, but this shit  _ works _ . 

It's December 16th, and Tony is housing, clothing, feeding, and getting the finest mental health care in the world for his parents’ assassin. 

He is also very, very drunk. And he wants to be even more drunk. He's glad he found Natasha's stash of this stuff. Four entire, unopened bottles and one more-than-half-full bottle. He's almost finished with the partial bottle, but give him some credit - he's been sober for years, and Extremis practically gave him a brand new liver to destroy all over again. He's also only been drinking for about two hours. 

Everyone else is gone. It's just him and Barnes. 

At hour six, after more than half of bottle number two is gone, he realizes - he isn't alone. Barnes is standing in the doorway again, but he isn't trying to come inside the ‘shop and he hasn't said anything. Tony wonders why, but he doesn't particularly care, either. He's too drunk to care. 

But he hasn't forgotten, either. And that might be worse. 

He wants to forget. 

“Why are you here?” Tony asks and takes another swig of the rot-gut. Barnes looks down at the floor, like he's debating on his answer. Tony wonders, briefly, if Barnes is debating answering at all. 

“Why  _ am _ I here?” He looks up and pins Tony with an uncertain look.

Tony laughs, and it's a hateful, ugly sound. “Where the fuck else where you going to  _ go _ , Barnes?” He sloshes the bottle in a wide arc around himself, encompassing the entirety of the world in the gesture. “T'Challa didn't know what to do with your suicidal ass, and you couldn't be trusted on your own, so. Who else has the money, the resources, the connections, who else has everything I have and the ability to restrain a goddamn super soldier all at the same time, hm?” He pauses for a half a second, then snorts. “Don't hurt yourself trying to figure out the answer. No one, that's who. And let's not forget  _ you made me responsible _ .”

“I didn't -” Barnes tries to argue, eyebrows pinched and low. 

“You blew your fucking brains out all over my fucking face!” Tony screams, standing in a lurch. The bottle slips from his hand and rolls across the floor, a little of it sloshing across the tile. He doesn't care. He has more. Barnes recoils a whole two steps. “You  _ did _ make me responsible, whether you intended to or not. Intentions don't count for  _ shit _ , and someone as fucked up as you ought to have figured that out by now.”

“I'm - Stark, I'm so-” 

“If you're going to apologize, shove it up your ass,” Tony snaps, bitter and prickly and raw. “Or Captain America's ass. I don't care. I don't want your apology. You know what I  _ want _ , Barnes? I want to not remember the way your  _ blood  _ felt after it dried all over my face. I want to forget washing my hair and puking my guts out when I found a piece of your skull. I want to forget the way you tried to dress up that shit as some self-sacrificing bullshit when all it was was  _ selfish _ .” 

Barnes’ expression is perfectly blank. He's all Soldier now, no Barnes left. Tony smirks, just a bit. Then he laughs. He flops back onto the couch behind him, clutching his gut and unable to stop the full-body shaking. Barnes doesn't so much as twitch, even at the signs of Tony's probable impending mental breakdown. 

He realizes his laughter is entirely too hysteric and too close to choking sobs. He rubs the heels of his hands under his eyes and down his cheeks.

“Death is messy. It's ugly and unpleasant. Humans? We weren't meant to see death as often as someone like you has. I've killed my fair share of people, sure, but most of the deaths attributed to my name weren't even - they weren't even my kill count. My weapons, my bombs, but it wasn't like I had any control over who lived or who died or where the missiles were being launched. 

“And then, there's you.” Tony looks up at Barnes with as blank an expression he can manage, and then he forces his arrogant smirk, the one everyone hates. “You, who fucking  _ shot himself _ all over me because you thought, somehow, that was a good justification for what you wanted. I don't want your death, Barnes. I don't want your life. I don't want anything to do with you at all. But now you're stuck here, and I'm forced to house the man who murdered my mother. Intentional or not. It's a shitty situation. The only thing I want from you is an acknowledgement that  _ you fucked up _ .”

Barnes steps into the workshop. He doesn't move the same as he has any other time Tony has seen him. He has a… grace. A sleekness to each step that reminds Tony of T'Challa, oddly enough. The arm isn't a prosthetic, but a real  _ part  _ of him. He isn't moving around the arm, it moves with him, every micro-movement precise but smooth and flowing. He's almost elegant, despite wearing jeans and a t shirt and - yet again - no shoes. 

“You aren't Barnes,” Tony says, tipping his head to the side and considering the man before him. 

He shakes his head. “The Asset. The American, sometimes. The Soldier. The Fist of HYDRA.” He clenches said fist and raises it, just to his waist, then drops his arm and scoffs. “I want the star back.”

“You aren't in much of a position to make demands,” Tony snarks. Just because he can. 

“No,” The Soldier agrees with a shrug. He stops his examination of one of Tony's work tables and half turns to look back at Tony. “I killed your mother. Not Barnes. He was gone, didn't come back until the Captain found us on the bridge.” He sneers a little, but it doesn't last - there and gone in a flash. “Although, yes, Barnes is to blame for attempting to kill us and placing the responsibility on your shoulders.” 

Tony snorts. “That's an understatement, but sure, we'll go with that.” The Soldier just shrugs and moves along to look at the display of old Iron Man suits. Tony had taken the time to rebuild several of his favorites from the fleet he'd destroyed for Pepper. They looked the same on the outside, but they had all the upgrades and bells and whistles on the inside. If he ever needed them, he could use them. 

“You did not fight Barnes in Siberia,” the soldier says when he gets to the exact suit model he's referencing. “We were constantly fighting each other for control, demanding to be able to control this body. Barnes fled from your wrath, but I fought back.” He turns to face Tony, arms loose by his sides. Somehow, that loose posture puts Tony's back up more than if The Soldier was actively threatening him. “You blew off my arm. You owe me the star.” 

Tony snorts a laugh. “You know what, that's a fair point. Take the arm off, and I'll etch it.” 

To his surprise, The Soldier immediately finds the special catch that pries off the arm. He detaches it with that same aloof look and lets it thud against the table. That done, he walks over to the spilled bottle and scoops it from the floor before chugging it. 

When he stops for a breath, he gasps a little at the too damn sharp burn and his eyes water. “This is not yours.”

“I stole it from Natasha,” Tony admits easily. 

“How much more do you have?” The Soldier asks. 

Tony bends over the arm of the couch and produces two unopened bottles. The Soldier nods and walks right on over to plop down on the couch beside Tony. He sets the empty bottle on the floor and holds out his hand expectantly. Tony gives it to him even as he wonders why he's doing such a thing. 

“Why are you here?” Tony asks, again. 

“FRIDAY was concerned for your health,” The Soldier answers immediately, like it's a fucking report to give or some shit. “She asked Barnes to check on you, so he walked down here and stood watching you for nearly half an hour before you noticed.” He glances to Tony, then away. “According to the internet, drinking away misery is better with company, is it not?” He tips the bottle up and Tony watches in morbid fascination as his throat bobs with each swallow. 

“You use the internet?” Tony blinks. 

The Soldier shrugs his empty left shoulder. “You gave Barnes permission to wander the grounds, not me. What else is there to do?” He looks over at Tony. “I assumed Barnes was the patient and I was the prisoner.”

“Buddy, I didn't even know you  _ existed  _ inside that fucked up head,” Tony says honestly. He waves his hand. “Same permissions as Barnes. Go where you want around the compound. Just do me a favor and don't leave the grounds.”

The Soldier looks perplexed. “In that session with the doctor. You said…” He pauses, then shifts and does a frighteningly good representation of Tony's voice, “‘You wanna kill people? Whatever. But do it because you  _ choose  _ to, not because someone else says you have to.’” He clears his throat and gives Tony an expectant look. 

“Still stands, I suppose,” Tony says easily. “Just, you know. Refrain from killing my employees, especially for no reason. If you think you have a pretty good reason, shoot it by me first, and we'll see. I'm not exactly about taking people's agency from them.” He studies The Soldier for a moment. “Who would you kill, anyway?” 

“Ross,” The Soldier snarls. That doesn't exactly surprise Tony, though he wishes it did. “The other HYDRA  _ fucks  _ that did things to me.” Tony's pretty okay with The Soldier keeping it at a nice, vague ‘things,’ but he can't help but wonder. “Now that we have… switched sides, I suppose, I needed a new handler. The programming doesn't allow me to exist and function without one, though thanks to everything they did in Wakanda, I have some measure of control over it. Barnes and I named you as that handler once we were coherent enough to understand that Rogers is not the man Barnes once knew, and once he accepted that I'll always want to kill him because he was the only mission I never completed.” 

“Well, that's fucked up,” Tony snorts. “Cap must have been devastated when he learned he couldn't be with his boyfriend without risk of murder.”

“I thought incest was still socially taboo,” The Soldier says, dry as the goddamn Sahara. Tony nearly does a spit-take with his mouthful of vodka (which may or may not actually be vodka, but he's processing it too fast for it to matter anyway). 

“What?” Tony asks through a closed throat as he tries not to choke. 

“Rogers and Barnes were brothers, not lovers,” The Soldier says, his eyebrows wrinkled just slightly. “I don't have Barnes’ memories from before the conditioning began and I was created, though, but that was how Barnes explained things.”

“Wait,” Tony says, flapping his hand between them. “You mean you and Barnes can actually speak to each other?”

The Soldier snorts. “No. We are like a split personality, but we are fully aware of the other. We have journals. We needed some way to communicate while we were in hiding so we would know where we had gone and what we had done so people did not get suspicious of us. That was how it began, just noting daily habits. As Barnes began to remember things, he asked me questions, and I began to realize I could ask him questions as well. It was an imperfect system, but we managed for a year and half like that.”

“So you were taking all your social norms from a guy raised in the Great Depression?” Tony asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Some from him, some from the man at the newspaper stand a few blocks from our apartment, some from the fruit stand, some from… all over. I was curious.” He seems thoughtful now, not ashamed or cheerful or embarrassed or sad. He's just - neutral. “Dr. Steinberg encourages the communication, though I won't speak to her.”

“Why's that?” Tony needles. 

The Soldier gives him a particularly flat, withering look. “I dislike medical personnel.”

“I'm a doctor,” Tony says.

“In math and science and computers and building such things,” The Soldier scoffs. “It is not remotely similar.” 

“I designed your arm,” Tony points out. “That's pretty damn similar if you ask me.”

The Soldier raises an eyebrow, but it isn't because he doesn't believe Tony - Tony has seen that look too many times to count. He seems surprised, or he would if he was actually showing any real emotion, that Tony was the one who designed the arm in the first place. 

“I sent the schematics to Princess Shuri along with BARF. They were supposed to use BARF to get rid of the hold of the control words by replacing the associations attached to each word. I never did find out if it worked.” Tony tips his head to the side again to study the Soldier. He's curious, damn him. He opens his mouth -

Only to find Barnes hand pressed tightly over his lips and chin. He's twisted himself awkwardly around on the couch to reach Tony, but he did it so quickly Tony hadn't even seen him move. Tony badly wants to lick the entire inside of his palm just to see if he'll squirm, but he also has no idea where his hand has been or the last time he washed it, so he refrains. Barely. 

“Do not say them,” The Soldier says simply. It isn't a command or even much of a request. It's merely a statement: the sky is blue, the grass is green, the sun is bright, Tony Stark will not say those code words. Simple enough, really. Tony nodded, and The Soldier retracted his hand. 

“You know, Dr. Steinberg isn't the sort of doctor that's going to poke you with sharp objects. I'm more likely to do that than her.” Tony takes another drink from the bottle in his hand, needing the burn, even if he isn't getting well and truly shitfaced like he wishes he could. 

“I know,” The Soldier says simply. He chugs a good portion of his bottle, then looks at Tony. “Do you really think HYDRA chose a random set of words with no meaning whatsoever to bend me toward their will? That they were able to achieve such a feat through mindless repetition and nothing more?”

“I imagined there was some torture involved,” Tony says honestly. To his credit, The Soldier doesn't take offense. He only nods. “So, I guess HYDRA had their own shrinks, huh.” 

“Naturally,” The Soldier said with a nod in Tony's direction. “They had to have some way to prevent people from questioning their motives. Dr. Sarkissian was the worst of them.” The Soldier gives Tony a flat look. “I will not speak to the other doctor, and good luck trying to force me.”

Tony holds up his hands in surrender. “Hey, no. Not gonna try. Therapy is only useful if you're willing. And, well, Barnes obviously needed  _ someone _ to talk to, otherwise he was just going to keep trying to off himself until he found something that worked for good.”

The Soldier is quiet for a long time, after that. It's fine. Tony doesn't care. He thinks it's probably several layers of fucked up that he can sit here and drink with the weapon that killed his mother on the day she died, but he can't fucking stand to be near the other half of the guy - the one who tried to blow his brains out all over Tony as some sort of fucked up repayment. Whatever, though. Tony doesn't particularly care right now. He's got just enough of a buzz going that it's mellowed everything out. 

“I want to shoot things,” The Soldier announces. He looks at Tony. “There is a gun range here, I've seen it, but I wasn't certain if I was permitted to access the armory.” 

“Have at it, Lone Ranger,” Tony says, waving his hand carelessly. “Just lock up when you're done and don't take anything with you back to the room. Best not tell Barnes about the permission, either. Don't need him getting any ideas.”

“If it matters at all, I doubt Barnes will try such a thing a second time,” The Soldier offers. Tony quirks an eyebrow but says nothing. “Our time in the soul stone was… difficult for him. We did not experience things the way the others did. It was HYDRA all over again, from the beginning. We were both ourselves and… not. It was as if we were watching from outside our bodies and yet experiencing the pain again at the same time.” 

“That… sounds really fucked up, I'm not going to lie,” Tony says, and it feels inadequate. What is he supposed to say, though? ‘Sorry’ is a useless platitude in this case - it was neither his fault nor could he change anything he did to make things better for either of them in the future. 

“The worst part, for him, was killing the Starks. He remembered your father, this time.” The Soldier shrugged. “It was just another mission for me. I'm not attached to any of those events. Now that I know you, I regret that it caused you to suffer, but I could not change it, so what's the use of wallowing in self pity? I did all those things, killed all those people. That is what I was created to do. I had no other purpose.”

Tony appreciates the honesty. It's refreshing. He'd grown so used to hearing “but it wasn't Barnes’ fault!” from anyone and everyone. And he knew that, he did. But acknowledging that it  _ was _ Barnes’ hand that had strangled the life out of his mother - the flesh hand, at that - went a long damn way in his books. 

“And now?” Tony asks. The Soldier doesn't have any particular expression, but Tony gets the feeling he isn't following what Tony means. “Now that you don't have orders, you don't  _ have _ to kill anyone or do whatever the fuck else HYDRA made you do, what is your purpose?” 

The Soldier doesn't respond for a very long moment. “I'm not certain,” he finally says. “Free will isn't a concept I'm familiar with.” 

“Well, get familiar with it,” Tony says with a shrug. “We're all about consent in the modern world.” He giggles to himself and drinks even more, clearing down to about the halfway point in his bottle. “Safe, sane, and consensual.” He looks at The Soldier. “We'll give you a little leeway on the sane part, but only a little.”

“You're drunk,” The Soldier says flatly. 

“Almost,” Tony says cheerfully. “Why, that a problem?” He swishes the vodka back and forth. “I shared my stolen booze with you.” 

“Natalia will take your spleen for stealing her good vodka,” The Soldier says, and he sounds almost amused by that. 

“I'm pretty sure she'll forgive me,” Tony says, a touch arrogantly. “Besides, once she knows you're still around, she'll forget all about the vodka.”

“I don't want her to know,” The Soldier says. It's simple, again - another command, but not spoken like one. Tony will not tell Natasha The Soldier exists. 

“Any particular reason why?” Tony asks, curious despite himself.

The Soldier upends his bottle, clears the last quarter of it, and then bends to set it carefully on the floor. “It will be the same problem as with Rogers. She will expect me to become someone she knew. I am not her Yasha, and while I remember her, I don't want that expectation.”

“Wait,” Tony says as he holds up his hand. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying  _ Rogers  _ caused the split between you and Barnes?”

“In a way,” The Soldier agrees. “Barnes is not me, and I am not Barnes. I am what HYDRA created once they had broken Barnes down into nothing. Barnes wasn't… there, not for a long, long time. Once the wipes from the chair lost their power, though, Barnes began to surface. Not all at once, and not entirely, but we were not two different people until after the fight on the helicarriers. Rogers caused  _ that _ .”

Tony huffs. “Naturally. Not that I'm surprised, but you know. I like you better. Barnes is… well.” Tony makes a face that The Soldier seems to find amusing judging from the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. 

“Don't you have a star to etch?” The Soldier asks. 

“That I do,” Tony agrees, but he doesn't immediately move. He twists the bottle in his hands. He studies The Soldier for a moment. “What do you want?”

“How do you mean?” The Soldier asks, his guard up.

“If you could have anything at all, anything in the world,” Tony says, “what would it be?” 

The Soldier looks just as thrown by that question as he does by Tony's revelation that he could do whatever he wanted now, so Tony leaves him to think about it. He gets to work on the arm, instead, using some of his special adamantium tools to engrave a star onto The Soldier's arm exactly where he wants it to go. He only does the outline, for now, figuring that if the Soldier wants it red again, he'll speak up. 

That done, Tony helps to get it reinstalled. He's glad he designed it to come off and go back on so easily. It makes doing simple things like this much easier. 

“I have a suggestion,” FRIDAY pipes up, though she's been silent since Barnes and The Soldier arrived. 

“What's that, babygirl?” Tony asks as he fiddles with the adjustments to the arm. 

“If The Soldier needs a purpose, he could assist me with wrangling you into eating and sleeping and generally functioning like a normal person.” FRIDAY says it so brightly and cheerfully that it  _ almost  _ doesn't even sound like a dig against him. Almost. 

The Soldier smirks again, but Tony just snorts. “I'm not normal,” Tony says immediately. “Besides, I doubt even The Soldier could manage something like that if Pepper in all her Extremis-enhanced fury couldn't do it.” 

“I have a particular skill set,” The Soldier says, and - at least at first - it sounds like he's agreeing with Tony. “That skill set has granted me the ability to be very persuasive when I need to be.” His expression, once again, is almost perfectly neutral. Tony thinks maybe it's those blue-gray eyes that seem to be taunting him and daring him into a challenge. 

“Know what, ice pop?” Tony asks, standing straight. “Challenge fucking accepted. Good luck. You're going to need it.”

“I thought I might be able to count on you,” FRIDAY says, sounding so pleased with herself. “Mr. Stark hasn't slept in over thirty hours, hasn't eaten in eighteen hours, and he's showing signs of dehydration.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Tattletale,” he mutters. “I have  _ Extremis _ , FRI. It's not like I need those things as much anymore.”

“On the contrary, boss,” FRIDAY says. “Extremis needs fuel to function, and fuel comes from both rest and nutrients. And mysterious, stolen vodka doesn't count as nutrients.”

“Blasphemy,” Tony says, shaking his head. “Clearly, I didn't raise you right.” He's smiling as he says it, with a far-off look, not quite paying attention to The Soldier anymore. He turns and walks back to his worktables. “You need to adjust your parameters. I'm not a normal, squishy human anymore.”

“I  _ have  _ adjusted my parameters, boss,” FRIDAY says, “but you still need to eat.”

“What if I don't wa-” he yelps when, suddenly, the floor vanishes from under his feet and he finds himself slung across The Soldier's shoulder. “What the fuck!”

“FRIDAY is right,” The Soldier says simply. “You need food and rest.” He walks right out of the workshop with Tony over his shoulder, carrying him to the elevator like a damn recalcitrant child. 

“Thank you,” FRIDAY says happily. “The kitchen on the common floor is stocked, but if you go there, Mr. Stark will likely just try to get away from you. I suggest the small kitchen in his personal suite. It has enough to make a meal from, and I can lock it down once you're inside, if you like.”

“Traitor!” Tony yelps as the elevator doors shut. 

“Just following my primary directive, boss,” FRIDAY says innocently. “Protecting you involves protecting you from yourself, sometimes.” 

“Stark,” The Soldier says, nudging Tony's side with the vibranium arm that's holding him in place. “Are you comfortable with me in your personal space?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Tony sighs, propping his chin on his hand and digging his elbow into The Soldier's back. It feels like a damn brick wall. “It's not like I spend a lot of time there, anyway.” 

“Why?” The Soldier asks, very little inflection in his voice. Tony figures that if he's bothering to ask at all, he must be curious. 

“I spend most of my time down in the workshop,” Tony says honestly. “I have a perfectly good couch down there, you know.” 

The Soldier mutters something about inadequacy, but Tony isn't really listening. He's too busy staring at The Soldier's ass as he carries Tony out of the elevator and down the hall toward Tony's rooms.

“You know what?” Rhodey's voice says from somewhere behind Tony and in front of The Soldier. “I'm not even going to ask.”

“Rhodey!” Tony whines. “The Soldier kidnapped me from the shop and he's in cahoots with FRIDAY!”

“We're going to make him eat and sleep,” FRIDAY reports dutifully. “The Soldier has agreed to assist me with this critical mission.” 

“Oh, it's critical all right if Tony's at the whining stage,” Rhodey sighs. “Whatever. You idiots have fun. I was going to make sure Tony hadn't downed in his own puke, but it looks like you got it covered, Barnes.”

“He isn't Barnes,” Tony says as The Soldier moves by Rhodey in the hall. Rhodey is in his chair already. It must be late. Rhodey raises an eyebrow. “There's Barnes, and then there's The Soldier. Two different people, honey bear. Keep up.”

Rhodey gets his chair turned around in the hall to follow after them. Tony taps The Soldier's back twice, and he slows his pace for Rhodey to catch up to them. “And this isn't a problem?”

“No?” Tony asks. “Why would it be? The Soldier isn't the one who tried to shoot himself all over me, and, you know, he admitted to killing my mom.” Rhodey sucks in a sharp breath. “It's good, Rhodey. We're all good.” 

The Soldier gets to Tony's rooms and holds the door open for Rhodey to enter first. He drops Tony on the couch - surprisingly gently - and then goes to the small kitchen area and begins to raid the fridge and pantry at FRIDAY's instruction. 

“And… how long have you know about this?” Rhodey asks cautiously.

“Oh, about an hour, maybe two?” Tony says, wiggling his hand back and forth. “We drank Nat's vodka together and he asked to get the star back on his arm. It's been interesting.”

“Sounds like it,” Rhodey says with a sigh. “So what about Barnes, then? Does he know about The Soldier?”

“Yeah,” Tony nods. “They leave each other notes, I guess.”

“So, you're cool with The Soldier, but you still don't like Barnes?” Rhodey asks to clarify.

“That about sums it up, yeah,” Tony says, then yawns. “I mean. The guy tried to die all over me. I'm not exactly over that yet.”

“I don't blame you,” Rhodey says sourly. “I'm not, either.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, it's late. I have a meeting with the Accords council tomorrow morning. Get some sleep, Tony. You really need it.”

“Sure thing, sour patch,” Tony says. He stays on the couch and watches as Rhodey wheels himself to the door. FRIDAY opens it for him, and then it swings closed silently behind him. 

Tony flops over on the couch and watches as The Soldier moves around his kitchenette. He seems to do everything with a fierce, serious focus and concentration. It's almost amusing, considering his search had only turned up enough supplies to make some sandwiches. Tony listens with half an ear as FRIDAY tells The Soldier exactly how much mayo and mustard to use, how to layer the meat, cheese, and lettuce exactly the way Tony likes, and even how to cut the sandwiches into little triangles.

The Soldier brings the plate piled with no less than a half dozen sandwiches and two bottles of water over to the coffee table. Tony forces himself to sit up again, though he's tired now, he realizes. Perhaps he has been for a while and he was just ignoring it. 

“You need a name,” Tony says as he grabs one of the triangles. He takes a big bite, mutters his thanks, and chews thoughtfully as The Soldier takes his own triangle to eat. “Something you choose, though, not something anyone forces on you.”

The Soldier doesn't respond right away, but that's okay. Tony would rather him think on it and consider all the options out there than make a rash decision. Tony drinks his water quickly, and The Soldier nudges the other bottle of water over to him shortly after. Tony sighs, but he accepts it. 

“James works well enough,” The Soldier finally says, once Tony has moved on to his third triangle. “Barnes doesn't use it. We have the same face, so having two identities would be complicated. I can have his first name, and he can keep the second.”

“Fair enough,” Tony says. “James it is.” 

James almost - not quite, but almost - smiles at him for that. They eat in silence until the sandwiches are gone and Tony is yawning every other minute. James sends him off to bed shortly after, and Tony goes without a fight, but he stops at his door.

“There's a guest room in this suite, you know. You and Barnes aren't the same person. You shouldn't have to share a room if you don't want to. Consider it yours, if you want it.” Tony doesn't stick around to get James’ answer, instead, he closes the door and strips out of his jeans and tee shirt before falling face first into his bed. 

He sleeps, and he doesn't dream.

* * *

 

Tony sees James a lot, after that. They don't necessarily speak much, but James will come down to the workshop and just sit and watch Tony work, or he will appear with food and stare at Tony until he eats it. Sometimes, Tony will order them pizza if he knows James is in the driver's seat rather than Barnes, and they'll watch movies or play video games. It's not entirely surprising that James is so good at Call of Duty. 

But then, one day, Tony hears the door to the ‘shop open, and when he turns, a smirk and a quip ready for James, he finds Barnes, reluctant and uncertain, instead. 

“Barnes,” Tony greets, right back to frosty neutrality. 

“Stark,” Barnes murmurs back. “Can I, uh, can I come in for a minute?” 

“Sure,” Tony allows, curious to see where this is going to go. He hasn't seen Barnes, much. Passing him occasionally still happens, but Tony has realized that most of the times before, he'd been interacting with James, not Barnes. 

Barnes walks in slowly, like he's afraid he's going to be asked to leave immediately or that something bad might happen if he crosses some sort of invisible line. There's no therapist here to play nice for, though, no one to pretend to be a decent person in front of, so Tony remains silent and just watches. 

“I -” Barnes stops himself, takes a deep breath, then straightens. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did, back in Wakanda. That wasn't fair to you, to put that on you. You were right when you said I was being selfish, looking for someone to give all my problems to. I'm owning that responsibility, now. It was shitty of me, and I won't ever be able to make up for that, but…” Barnes falters. “But I'd like to try. If you'll let me.”

Tony thinks, now, maybe they can find some sort of resolution to this shit. He feels a tiny spark of hope for the first time in a long, long time. It isn't much, and it isn't  _ for _ much, but he wants to try. 

“All right,” Tony says with a nod. “That's fair. The only thing I'm going to ask is that you don't try to do anything like that again. If you feel you really can't hack it anymore, give up your control to James. He likes figuring stuff out. He's learning what kinds of foods he likes and what kind of tv shows and movies he likes. He's learning how to become his own person, and you have to think about him, too, before you try to take yourself out of the picture again.”

Barnes shrinks under that accusation. “I know,” he says quietly. “We… talked about it. Sort of. He's getting really passive aggressive, lately. But he's right. And I'm sorry. I know it doesn't mean much, but I am.”

“Okay,” Tony says simply. 

“That's it?” Barnes asks warily. 

“What more do you want?” Tony asks, feeling tired again. 

Barnes looks down at the floor. “I expected you to yell at me again, honestly.”

“Admittedly, I was a little drunk,” Tony says with a shrug. 

“You wanted me to acknowledge that I fucked up,” Barnes says, finding his spine again, somehow. “I did. I fucked up. And I'm admitting that.”

“Good,” Tony snorts. “Might help you figure out where your priorities lie for figuring out what you want to do with yourself now that you aren't HYDRA's murder marionette.”

“Alliteration, nice,” Barnes says flatly. Tony laughs lightly, just a little. “But I already know. I was a mechanic, back before they drafted me. I want to do that again. I don't want to kill people anymore, I don't want to fight anymore, and I don't want to rely on anyone else to house me like you've been forced to do this whole time.”

“So go take some classes at the community college down the road,” Tony says with a raised eyebrow. 

“You said James wasn't allowed to leave the compound. I didn't think I was, either,” Barnes says slowly. 

“Christ,” Tony mutters, rubbing his hand over his face. “Am I the only person who understands that you two are totally different people? His permissions aren't the same as yours and vice versa. He might snap someone's neck for looking at him funny. I doubt you will. He understands the law, he just understands it in a different context than we do, and he honestly thinks a lot of laws are stupid. Which, I'm not arguing, but I also can't work a legal defense around that. So, yeah, you can leave. Him? Not so much.” 

“And if he takes over while I'm out there?” Barnes asks. 

“He'll probably just come back,” Tony says with a shrug. “He's said he's seen enough of the world. He doesn't mind hanging out in the ‘shop with me and being my assistant.” 

Barnes looks confused by that, but he just shakes his head. “I wanna repay you, Stark. For doing all this for me.” He looks uncomfortable with the request, but probably only because he thinks he can't possibly do it. 

Tony thinks for a moment as he fiddles with the needle nose pliers in his hands. “Okay, so. Here's what you can do. Get certified to fix literally everything. You can become my personal mechanic. That keeps James close and it lets you live and work without feeling like you're relying on someone to take care of you.”

Barnes looks stunned. He doesn't say anything for long enough that Tony turns his attention back to the inside of the War Machine suit he's working on for Rhodey. He gets another wire yanked out so he can replace it and add in the new flight stabilizer system when he feels Barnes grab him. 

Only it isn't Barnes. It's James. 

Tony opens his mouth to say something, but then James is kissing him, full of teeth and tongue. Tony melts into it, dropping the pliers to the floor and wrapping his arms around James’ neck. 

“Not that I'm complaining,” Tony says between kisses, “but what's - mphf - all this for?”

“You talk too much,” James says in a low, rasping voice that resembles a damn growl of all things. Tony laughs as James tips him back a little and kisses him harder. Tony groans into it as one of James’ hands stays at his back but the other slides down to squeeze his ass. James licks and nips across Tony's jaw to his neck. “You are brilliant,” James murmurs into his ear. “If you  _ consent _ ,” James purrs into his ear, laying it on extra thick, “I want to bend you over that table and fuck you senseless.”

“Sounds like a damn good time,” Tony says with a smirk. He nudges James back just a little. “Why now, though? Not that I'm objecting. Now is most definitely better than later. But why?”

James cups Tony's face gently. “Because you found a way for both Barnes and I to coexist peacefully, and you're letting him feel useful and not like a burden while allowing me to remain close all at the same time. You do so much for everyone else, even in this. And I want to give something back because I want to, not because I have to.” 

Tony smiles, big and bright. James has likes and dislikes, has preferences, has opinions, has a lot of things. James doesn't have wants or desires, not really. He might want something in the sense that he sees that it is useful and therefore beneficial, but he does not want something simply because he is allowed to want it. Tony's been working on that. But if he's what James wants? Well. 

James is exactly what he wants, too, and he hasn't really wanted anything in a long time, either.

* * *

 

The biggest surprise that comes with fucking a former assassin isn't the athletics in bed or even the kinks James likes - though his lining up fairly well with Tony's is definitely an added bonus. No, the biggest surprise is what Tony thought would be the biggest challenge: Barnes. 

But Barnes greets him one morning in the communal kitchen with a rather big breakfast and only a slight grimace at the clear marks on Tony's skin from the previous night's activities. He sets the plate, and a very big cup of coffee, in front of Tony. 

“You should eat after all that.” He gestures vaguely at Tony's neck and wrists, the lurid bruises still nice and dark despite Extremis. “James asked me to cook.”

“Uh. Thanks?” Tony sits at the bar and takes the coffee first. “I thought you'd be a little more weirded out by all this, to be honest.”

Barnes just shrugs. “He deserves something, some _ one _ , who makes him happy. I found fucking poems in Russian dedicated to your ass, okay? We use that notebook to communicate what we do while the other isn't walking around. I figured that was his equivalent to me walking in on some necking or something.” Barnes shrugs, again, and turns to grab another plate. “Those classes start next week, by the way. I thought I'd let you know.” 

“Huh.” Tony doesn't really say much else as he eats his way through a surprisingly very good breakfast.

* * *

 

It takes another six months before Tony and Bucky are comfortable enough with each other to start using first names rather than surnames. Tony drags Bucky down to the ‘shop occasionally to show him some tricks with engines, and Bucky cooks a mean vegetable stew. They're more comfortable with each other now, even if Barnes still has his very bad days and weeks and months where he barely functions. Tony is familiar with depression, though. He knows how it works, how it cycles. It never truly goes away. But Barnes is doing a lot better now than he was when he'd first arrived. Dr. Steinberg has opened up a regular practice again, but it's right there in the compound and it's geared toward enhanced people and the former SHIELD agents Tony hired. 

Tony eggs Bucky into going to his classes, bullies him into things like eating and showering when it's been a while and there's no sign of James in the near future. He doesn't quite have their changes down to a science yet, but he's getting there. James tends to take the weekends, it seems, so he can spend several days in a row with Tony, and Bucky gets the week so he can attend his classes. 

During one of Bucky's better times, he goes on a few dates with a sweet girl from the college he's attending. Tony says all the right things to encourage him, even if it feels weird to do so. He isn't sure why it feels weird. James and Bucky aren't the same people  _ at all _ . Why is he jealous?

Tony only finds out a few weeks after Bucky has ended things with the girl that things didn't work out and why they didn't work out. Apparently, James had put up a fuss. Tony didn't think that was fair, but he laughed at Bucky's story about James carving the word “no” into the plaster in the ceiling over his bed.

* * *

 

When Bucky finally finished his program, there wasn't any sort of graduation ceremony or anything. He was handed a certificate, told ‘good job,’ and sent on his way. So Tony took him out to a really nice dinner instead, and then they had a small party at the compound with Rhodey, Natasha, Peter, and Hill. (Tony suspected Hill was only there because she wanted something from him, but he'd roped her into the celebration anyway, and she'd just relaxed and had a good time, realizing she'd have to wait to ask anyway.)

Tony immediately began showing Bucky his cars, tearing them all apart with him and putting them back together one by one. They took a really long drive, one day, in the McLaren, driving up the coast and back. It had been… nice. Really nice. Bucky was genuinely a good person, he was funny and sarcastic, smart as a whip, and, well. Tony was sort of already fucking him. His body, anyway.

And then, one night, after they'd made dinner together for a change, Bucky leaned in, slowly, and kissed Tony. It was soft and gentle - nothing like James’ consuming kisses. It was achingly sweet. 

“What was that for?” Tony wonders, looking at Bucky with a tilt to his head. 

Bucky flushes pink - another thing he does that James doesn't ever do. Tony finds it cute. “I… wanted to,” Bucky admitted quietly. “If you don't, it's - it's fine. Please just tell me.”

“Have you said anything to James?” Tony asks first. 

Bucky nods as he chews on his lip. “He, um, he thinks it's fine?” His voice ticks up at the end, like he's asking a question. “I asked what he'd do if I kissed you. He never wrote anything back. That's as much as a yes out of him as I ever get.”

“It isn't a no carved into your ceiling,” Tony laughs. He gives Bucky a soft smile. “Let's leave it at that until I can talk to him, okay?” Bucky nods quickly. “Now, you want that tiramisu I ordered?” Bucky's smile is beautiful.

* * *

 

James thinks the only person Bucky should be with is Tony. He also thinks the only people Tony should get are himself and Bucky, though James has never said as much before as far as making them exclusive was concerned. Not that Tony's really been fucking around with anyone else - trust issues and all - but it was sweet in the weird way only James could manage. 

That decided, Tony found himself actually dating Bucky and still fucking James regularly, even if their marathon sex sessions were sometimes derailed when Bucky would surface and take over, turning things slow and soft and sweet. It really was like fucking two completely different people. 

Rhodey thought Tony was insane, but that was nothing new. 

Natasha was curious about the dynamic, but she never once tried to call James ‘Yasha,’ and Tony knew that earned her some major points with James. 

Peter didn't quite appreciate the complexity in dating two people who shared the same body, but he understood enough to crack jokes at Tony's expense. 

Hill didn't care at all in true Hill fashion, and Tony appreciated her for it. 

Things had settled for them, even if it had taken a little over two and a half years, in total, for it to happen for all three of them. 

**Author's Note:**

> the ending is shitty, and i apologize for that  
> but i got a little burnt out on this fic and i just wanted it done with  
> so you get this  
> maybe one day - but probably not - i might go back and fix it
> 
> i probably didn't handle a lot of this shit as sensitively as i should have, but i was trying to go for "real" and i drew on personal experiences for that - the anger, the sense of guilt and betrayal, the long as fuck time it takes to forgive someone for putting that shit on your shoulders even when you know Exactly what it's like to feel that way - all that comes from a very genuine place
> 
> you don't have to like it. 
> 
> comments are moderated, anons can't comment, and only registered users can see this work because of the heavy content. if that fucks with the rules of the bingo in some way - or if the general content of this post fucks with those rules - i'll take the bingo part off and find something else to write for this square. i admit i didn't look at the rules beforehand when it came to this. let me know - respectfully, please - and i'll make any necessary alterations asap.


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